


deaf to your rhythm

by Darkfromday



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: All I wanted was some more FrostHawk in the world, Blood and Gore, Bromance, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Clint Feels, Clint Has Issues, Clint's history is a mix of comics and my own guesses, F/M, Frosthawk - Freeform, He just wants Clint guys, I Will Go Down With This Ship, It prefers to be referred to as 'she', Loki Does What He Wants, Loki Needs a Hug, M/M, Natasha & Thor Friendship, Plot Twists, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow To Update, Smart Clint, Snarky EVERYONE, The Tesseract is sentient, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Villain Fights, also the fact that he's an asshole, but it's okay because Clint's an asshole too, even with the whole circus life detour thing~, i'm sorry in advance, it's just that blasted Tesseract mind-control stuff getting in the way he swears, this is the serious mature fic I shouldn't write, this is way too many tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkfromday/pseuds/Darkfromday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tesseract <em>knew</em> Clint Barton. Loki did not. He merely <em>wanted</em> to, with everything in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Expressionism

He fired, and missed.

Undoubtedly he owed that to the crystal-blue mist shimmering in the air, but that didn’t matter. That his target was still intact _did_.

Clint never missed with a bow. But in this space, in this place of chill and ominous blue (cerulean, perhaps, or the deep shade of the sky), he stood in perfect position but fired arrow after arrow into shadow. Neither sight nor sound rewarded him with what he desired most.

_Never misses. Hah._

He grunted, putting a bit more force into it. There was a skitter as the head hit the street and split. Irreparable. Like him.

_You’ve grown old, Clint. Lost your mastery. Just as useless as a grunt in a high-priced uniform._

He outright growled at that—but shot no better.

 _I always was the better shooter. The better performer too._ Barney’s voice, that devilish mix of sympathy and malicious mocking. He never _could_ escape it. _Face it, Clint. Pretty soon S.H.I.E.L.D’s gonna be puttin’ you out to pasture. So why keep practicing? You missed. All you’re ever gonna do from now on is miss. You're not special no more. So just—_

**_—give in._ **

Clint flinched and his next shot went wide, bounced off something that sounded oddly metallic with a shriek.

That was not his brother’s voice.

**_Give in, Barton. You need not fight. You need not struggle. Do as I wish, and I will show you beauty. Show you power. Show you prowess, your very own, and show you peace._ **

**_Do you not wish for peace?_ **

The blue intensified. But instead of blinding him, it took over the space around him and gave him better sight than he had had before. He felt the rooftop he perched on, saw the darkness of his clothes and of the street below, saw the streetlamps he’d broken and the useless arrows littered all down the street, nowhere near as subtle as he was at his best. And he saw his target, still moving derisively smoothly. He felt he had been blind _before_ , groping in the dark, sliding past shadows to reach desperately for the right shot, the shot that had come so easily and in such abundance before.

Before what?

He could not remember now. The blue was as suffocating as it was blanketing.

Again the honey-sweet shade spoke, coaxed.   ** _Come now, archer. Have a taste of the rewards of obedience. Aim lower, and seven degrees to your right._**

God help him, but he did it—he was so desperate—he wanted so much to shoot right again.

He did—and the arrow soared true, too forceful to ignore. It hit the back tire of the retreating car with a _whissssh_ that sent the car spinning, and, when it detonated, flipping upside-down for good measure.

Screams issued from the burning car; their pitch was a livewire over his sensitive skin. Every hair on his body went ramrod-straight—

_Those are—my parents’ voices—_

The blue _giggled_ , low and sinister, as they screamed and were seared alive. He had not known—he hadn’t _been_ in the accident that took them away, the crash that was his end and his beginning –

Yet there he was, the cause and killer. He stood above them, removed by shades and height from the people who had raised him, taught him to love and to fear.

And yet _he_ giggled too, encouraged by the blue.

By the Tesseract.

By his mistress.

_Crash!_

Clint Barton leapt out of bed and had his bow in hand before he’d realized he had been asleep and dreaming of dealing out original sin.

Someone was in his apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will not get updated often.  
> It is the result of wanting more stories where Clint and Loki learn to get past their tremendous mountain of shit and love each other. Also, RP. That too.  
> I just really love Frosthawk guys.  
> Please let me know if Clint slips out of character.  
> Also, I am so, so sorry.


	2. Requiem

“Why do you need to know this again?”

“As previously discussed, it’s proper protocol to monitor any agent after they have been compromised. And though you seem to be doing well _overall_ in the months since…well, _that_ , this is an unusual enough detail that it needs to be recorded in case of future reoccurrence.”

Clint just stared.

Eventually the S.H.I.E.L.D. psychiatrist sighed and rephrased. “It’s paperwork for paperwork’s sake.”

“I didn’t lose you on that. What I need to know is _why anyone else cares_.”

“Because you do,” she said simply, and followed by echoing his words from their first session together. “Who knows _you_ better than you?”

He leaned back into the divan, surveying the ceiling so she would be fooled into thinking he wasn’t studying her. Liang Daiyu was the best psychiatrist S.H.I.E.L.D. could afford to have on payroll, and she probably had more degrees than he could have gotten in five lifetimes. _A whole goddamned staircase of them_ , he’d said when he had been assigned to her, or rather her to him. The reluctance on his end hadn’t bothered Fury one bit. He had been stamped ‘COMPROMISED’ since New York, and at this rate nothing short of a miracle or his untimely death would get that red out of his ledger.

But that all had nothing to do with her. Dr. Liang was cool, composed, professional. She gave no sign of having a temper to lose. When she spoke to him, she sometimes adopted his mannerisms or ways of talking, but not in a way that was condescending. She never treated him like a monster, like a relapse waiting to shoot the world down. If she wasn’t privy to far too many of his thoughts, he would have considered inviting her out for lunch or coffee months ago.

“Clint…? Clint. Are you still with me?”

 _Whoops._ No he was not.

“Er…” He blinked and pushed his idle thoughts on her as a competent woman away, slotting her back into place as a competent superior. “You might have to repeat all that.”

She gave him an amused look over her rectangle-shaped glasses. “Fortunately it was just the one question.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Right. Question.” Clint racked his brain and it floated back past thoughts of his debriefing later and the lunch date he’d missed with the SHIELD colleagues that didn’t seem to want him to come in the first place.

Oh, right. _Has there been anything significant in your dreams lately, Clint?_

He hedged his answer a bit. “By ‘significant’, I guess you mean ‘not the dreams where I get laid or polish my arrows’. My actual arrows. Because you know, I’m a healthy man and I have a lot of those dreams.”

Dr. Liang just lifted one polished black eyebrow. “Mmmhmm.”

_Nice going, Barton._

Barney’s voice poked its way back into his head. _Go on then, tell her everything. Maybe she’ll go easy on you. Or hell, maybe she’ll tattle to Fury. Put you out of your misery. Damn sight better than her yanking on your wrong leash biweekly, eh?_

“Clint. I thought we were past the stage where we both sit on opposite sides of the room and waste one another’s time.”

He gave her a sharp glare for that one. He’d forgotten she could get prickly when she thought he wasn’t going to ‘cooperate’.  _So much for respecting my boundaries._ “Careful, doc. Thanks to that folder in your hands you know better than I do that I’m the most defiant bastard you’ve ever had put his boots up on this weird little sofa.” He did so now, knowing she hated that with a passion but wouldn’t dare breach his trust in her by asking him to sit up again.

“And you know better than I do that _that_ is why Director Fury assigned you to me.”

_Bitch has a point, baby bro._

_—Shut up, Barney._

“Blue.” He eventually spat the word, after another long silence in which he actually _wasn’t_ talking to himself or his whacked-out mental manifestation of his estranged older brother. “The color blue. I see it a lot while I’m dreaming.”

“Blue… skies? Eyes? Clothes?”

“No. Just… the color, everywhere. In the air, like the sky, but not.” He didn’t say _like eerie mist_. “It’s not like I suddenly notice, hey, everyone’s wearing one color or they all have the same color or shade of eyes or all their dogs’ collars or blue or some shit. It’s just all around me.” He didn’t say _and it speaks to me and knows my name and pulls the puppet strings that were supposed to be long-cut_.

Dr. Liang hummed as she listened, and scratched things down on her blue notepad (which right now was causing Clint an unbelievable amount of stress for reasons he couldn’t fathom). He didn’t know that she had almost put it away when he’d mentioned the color, but had too many notes on it to toss aside for a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to crack.

She probed gently. “Is it a certain _shade_ of blue…?”

“No,” Clint responded at once, keeping his face flat. Because _of course it was a certain shade_ , but he’d be damned if he signed his own death sentence _and_ gave permission for lethal injection. He’d become a better liar after everything shook out, and so far Dr. Liang had given no indication that she could see through that level of his bullshit.

And anyway, he wasn’t a mind-slave anymore. He was no one’s pet. Natasha had shaken that for him, and he’d kept it off for over a year. All this _double-checking_ and _triple-checking_ and _lost count of how many fucking checkpoints I’ve had_ was starting to get to him…

“So then, it’s nothing to do with the Tesseract?”

He flinched involuntarily.

 _Yeah—just_ starting _to get to me._

“Nah,” he said instead, and more quietly. “Nothing like that for a long time. The color’s just there, and I wanted to know if you knew why I was dreaming about it.”

“That depends. It may be associated with someone you love, or don’t, or with something you’ve forgotten that your subconsciousness is trying to remind you of. Do you have any— _other_ compelling memories of the color blue?”

“Well, I used to hate wearing the color to school as a kid—”

“I am serious, Clint.”

“Seriously? No. Blue was a blip on my radar before this. Never mattered.” Another lie, less smooth. His father’s eyes had been ice-blue. He had dreamed of them for many years after the accident.

But it had nothing to do with the cube, and so wasn’t any of her business to know. He had sweated hard to make sure that there were certain things that even S.H.I.E.L.D. psychiatrists didn’t have the clearance to know. So he didn’t say _well seriously, that color represents so much loss of control of my own life that I think I’ll have a fixed problem with that color for the rest of my days._

In his peripheral vision ( _when had he looked away?_ ), Dr. Liang uncrossed her legs, put her pencil and pad away and leaned in to catch his gaze, which he reluctantly gave back. Her expression had softened, and so had her voice.

“Clint… you know I can’t help you if you don’t let me know what’s going on with you. I said before that what’s said between you and me stays here, unless you try and cut my throat one day, in which case it is in my contract that I hit the panic button before succumbing to my wound.” He smiled a little despite the implication ( _that you even have a panic button for me, bet it’s purple, wouldn’t that be fucking sick_ ), and that seemed to bolster her enough to keep her talking.

“I don’t take what you tell me and blab to Director Fury. I sit here for a while after you go, and I try to use what you’ve told me to think of the best way to help you, keep you feeling positively. And when you don’t tell me anything…”

“—Someone broke into my apartment last night.”

 _That_ took her off guard. She blinked several times, and he saw from the brief crack in her perfect expression that she hadn’t really expected any openness from him so soon. “Oh—well—I suppose that explains why half your face is bandaged?”

“Bandaged?” Idly he rubbed at the left side of his face, over the pinkening bandage. “Huh. Almost forgot it was there.”

“You _forgot_ that you might have been in an altercation with a burglar last night?”

“Not a burglar. Nothing was taken.”

She huffed. “An _intruder_ , then. Someone who was able to take you by surprise and clearly leave his or her mark on your face.”

 _And my ankle._ “It’s okay. You should see him.”

“I’m scared to.” Dr. Liang retrieved her notepad, scribbled something and held it away from him when she was done. He didn’t even bother to lean forward and try to see what he’d said to pique her interest. “Do you know the man’s identity?”

“What can I say?” Clint shrugged. “It was dark. I was more interested in neutralizing the threat, not turning the lights on and offering him coffee.” He didn’t say, _of_ course _I know who it was, the bastard._

“ _Mmmmhmm_.” Another scribble-scratch. Sometimes he wondered if she was just doodling over there. “Do you at least have an idea of his build?”

“Yep.”

“And will you press charges should you find out his identity?”

 _Nope._ “Without a doubt.”

Their session went back and forth in this way until its inevitable conclusion at four, which meant at three fifty-five Clint was off of the divan and stretching, this time careful not to strain his ankle, and the psychiatrist was putting her notepad away and trying to coax him to stay the last five minutes for the sake of her paperwork. Today he acquiesced to her request because he had nothing better to do with the extra time.

“Truly, Clint—” She took his arm as the seconds ticked reliably away on her wristwatch. “If you dream of anything blue again, or of the Tesseract, or Manhattan, or Loki—” she ignored his stiffening under her palm at the name. “—let me know, and we can talk things out. You don’t have to deal with the fallout of this alone.”

But he left the office with only a backwards jerky nod, and didn’t say _Actually yeah, I do_.

\-------------------

Sometimes Clint went for a long drive after his mandatory sessions with Daiyu. It helped him clear his head and kept him from picking off the first person who shoved him aside in the city or gave him the evil eye. This afternoon his mind was not so cluttered that he needed the escape, so he drove instead to a more somber place.

The grass had been clipped since the last time he’d come. He calculated that it must be cut about once every fortnight, and always either the day before or after he felt the urge to drop by. He walked through, inhaling the scent even as he tried not to crush the flowers families laid by the various tombstones.

Clint ducked and weaved as though he were on a mission, avoiding trees and family names ages old. His eyes instinctively scanned for his own name, before remembering that his parents were buried in the Midwest, and only one dead soul had any power to bring him here.

He stopped in front of the slate tomb, cold and unruffled, so unlike the man it was meant to represent for all of time. He half-read words like _Beloved friend_ and _War hero_. _Missed by many_. As usual with these fucked-up ceremonies of remembrance, the words were empty compared to the man. And the inscription used his full name, which was even more bizarre to Clint. He’d only used the full name of his ex-handler once; when they’d first met, with him as a stupid young kid fresh out of circus, and he’d looked unimpressed at the ID card he’d just stolen out of the man’s breast pocket.

_Phillip Coulson? Sounds dry as fuck._

_Yeah, it sucks. Call me Phil._

So Clint had known him as nothing else, until the day he’d crawled out of S.H.I.E.L.D. lockdown to attend the funeral. The last thing he remembered from that cold May evening was the lowering of the casket into the dry, hungry earth. He woke up next morning with a hangover from near alcohol poisoning.

He wondered who was responsible for what this shallow version of memory preservation would say for all time. _Phil’s cellist? Agent Hill? Maybe Fury?_

It didn’t matter. For all the funerals the latter two had attended (if they were the ones responsible for this standard bit), they should have known that empty phrases were empty. The words on Phil Coulson’s tomb gave him no satisfaction, no grief, no nostalgia. They gave him only torment.

Clint fixed the flowers someone had left before going back to his car. He’d see the gravestone again, after all.

\-------------------

Hall and Oates blasted from his cell, which he answered with a headset tap.

“Barton.”

“I’ve been calling you all afternoon, you bastard. I still can’t feel my jaw.”

He just smirked. “Serves you right.”

“Nuh-uh, I don’t deserve this treatment. I am a victim of abuse and unanswered phone calls and brutal assassin-beatdowns. I should make you pay for damages.”

“To your face? I probably improved it, let’s be honest.”

“You’re cold. Come by.”

“No.”

“C’mon—”

“I’m not going to. And if you ever break into my place again, I will end you.”

Silence on the other end. Then the voice wheedled, “Please? You know I didn’t mean to scare the shit out of you.”

“Most people accomplish that by _not_ breaking my window at three in the morning.”

“Just fifteen minutes—”

“No.”

“…Six.”

“Most people go by fives—”

“Barton, don’t be such a hardass all the time.” The last word was almost spat. “ _Five_.”

“Deal.”

He hung up and made a left at the light instead of a right. If he had anything to say about it, he’d be compensated for his cheek _and_ that window in exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really like Hall and Oates. XD
> 
> I'm on tumblr in case the desire to chat strikes you.


	3. Dissonance

**piano**

He was in the end phase of flirting with the secretary to get the keycode for the higher floors when he heard the steady _click-click_ of heels behind him, and didn’t even have to turn to know what other woman would dare get that close to him. So he cut himself off mid-sentence, giving the girl a half-apologetic look.

“—ah, Miss Potts.”

The clicks halted. “Agent Barton. Were you really trying to charm your way upstairs?”

“Dunno—” he winked at the brunette behind the counter, “was it working?”

To his credit, _she_ blushed. But Pepper Potts was not so easily wooed, or swayed. “Don’t make me put you on the Don’t-Let-In list.”

“Oh god, not the lists.” Clint turned to her, mimicking a look of absolute terror. “Anything but that, Potts, I fear the lists. I have nightmares about your color-coding.”

“Oh, come on and let’s go upstairs already.” The Stark Industries CEO rolled her eyes, pushing a lock of strawberry-blonde hair off her forehead. He strolled away whistling, giving the secretary a parting wink that she didn’t have time to enjoy; Pepper made sure to shoot her a scolding look before turning on her heels and following Clint into the elevator.

The ascent was smooth; his sensitive ears didn’t so much as twitch. He pressed his back casually into a corner, while Pepper stood straight, near enough for him to be aware of her faint perfume. When she glanced sideways at him, he found his sunglasses and pushed them on—unfortunately that didn’t work to discourage her from speaking to him, as it so often did with others.

“Between you and Tony, I’ve had to cycle through far too many secretaries.”

He shrugged. At least these days she had one less rogue to worry about. The self-proclaimed Iron Man had apologized less for being single than even Clint did. _Types like us are bad for business, and Potts knows that._

She tried to initiate conversation again. “I feel like I should be concerned about you—particularly when I see Ms. Rushman on the streets more often.”

 _So that’s how they’re playing it, huh…_ “Well, she’s got a cover to uphold now—no room to drop it once your boytoy gets his act together and saves his own ass like before.”

_And the red in her ledger is unseen, not domestic. Unlike me, she has an established front she can bury it behind._

This time, Clint felt more than saw her frown. His brain chose this especially helpful time to inform him that the scent he’d detected before was peach blossom.

‘ _Bad call shitting on the man of the house, little bro.’_

_—Put a cork in it, Barney._

Fortunately the elevator was swift. A prompt and pleasant ‘ _ding_ ’ announced their arrival at the highest floor of Stark Tower (or _A Tower_ , as he had dryly called it for the past year), and Clint and Pepper exited as one, with her steps being more fluid than his sprained-ankle strut. That was also when she chose to glance down and notice the source of his temporary imbalance.

“Have you had that looked at?”

“Nah.” He smirked, not-hobbling over to the place she was least likely to want to sit—right by the windows. “Trust me, it’s not pretty.”

Six seconds later he had to hold in a grumble when she followed anyway and sat down in one of the few straight-backed chairs allowed this high, and this close to said window-seat. “Agent Barton, I didn’t get this far in my career by only paying attention to the _pretty_ side of business.”

“That you didn’t,” he agreed. He wasn’t pleased at being practically summoned here like some foot soldier, but he respected Potts, and the last thing he wanted was to piss her off.

Silence floated between them, a feather both were willing to let float. Clint knew that Pepper didn’t know what to say to him first (people seldom did, these days) and he was in no mood to loan her a clue. Barring Nat and Stark’s fresh-faced secretary, most of the women in his life seemed determined to psychoanalyze him into space dust. Idly he wondered if he had a ‘Piss _Me_ Off’ sign hung around his neck.

“Agent Barton—”

He held up a hand stiffly, cutting her off. “Just—Barton is fine. Please.”

Potts ignored him by maneuvering around saying his name again. “I may not suit up, but I’m well aware that _something_ is going on. Something’s brewing in Tony’s cauldron and you know about it. You showing up looking like you’re post bar-brawl only confirms my suspicions.”

“Have you ever heard of ‘coincidence’?” he shot back, ignoring the echo of pseudo-Barney’s agreement in his head. “Sometimes things just happen, Potts. Even more commonly than you might think, sometimes things that don’t involve your squeeze-boyfriend-companion thing. Who knew.”

Her only response to his raised hackles was a bright lifted eyebrow, and a new intensity in her bright eyes that made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. He could practically feel her asking without having to open her mouth: _Don’t bullshit me. What the hell_ happened _to you?_

When her attention became too much, his voice came out sulkier than it had before. “…why are you asking me this? I don’t keep tabs on Stark or anyone else but myself, I thought that was obvious by now.”

Bruce Banner was Stark’s new Best Friend Forever, his science mate, not Clint. And the archer gave no shits about it either. Being an Avenger was a _job_ , was _work_ , and when that was over his first priority was restoring his personal space, not having late-night texting sessions with a clingy insomniac billionaire. If it wasn’t so cheesy and consistently played, Jason Derulo’s old 2010 hit would be his anthem.

Potts crossed her stocking-covered legs, and didn’t shift her penetrating stare away for a moment.

“Agen—Barton. Tony latches onto topics—it’s his thing—and that usually tells me what to try and keep hidden from the press, or who to warn to get out of the country. Lately he’s been unable to stop mentioning _you_. He talked about you for a week straight, then crawled into bed this morning with cuts and bruises—and stopped talking about you as much, which is _not_ what I’d call coincidence. And since you’re the one I see least by far, and you certainly aren't working on super-secret science projects or architecture plans… here I am, to find out why you’re his new favorite thing.”

Clint opened his mouth to say he didn’t know a damn thing— _architecture plans?_ —and was only here to indulge a madman and collect from him, when the elevator doors slid open and said madman strutted in behind a scent cloud of beer.

Tony Stark.

“Pep! Pep, you got him, great. Clip his wings. _Barton_! Long time no nest, am I right? Why the hell did I have to try so hard to get you up here? You wound me.”

“I sure do.” He surveyed the older man coolly. Stark was sporting all the injuries he’d predicted in the dark and on the drive here—bruised purple cheek and arm, cuts that spanned his other arm, under his black workshop tank top and through the left side of his goatee, and a matching limp that made his approach less spectacular than it otherwise might be, even with all the extra baggage. And the titanium-wearing nut was _still_ smiling. “You smell like a boulevard of broken dreams.”

“Yeah, not normally my style. But I really think we understand each other better when we’re drunk. Speaking of, what’s your poison?”

“ _Tony_ ,” Potts scolded, effortlessly reminding the men that she was in the room and she was not liking what was unfolding, or the matching injuries on the two of them. “First of all, I thought we’d discussed that you drinking anytime _before_ evening was better as a thing of the past—”

“But Pep, it’s almost night anyway and you knew I was inviting friends over. We’re adults, we can’t get shit done and play nice without alcohol.”

“And yet I do it every day.” Potts briefly rubbed at the bridge of her nose—Clint filed away the obvious sign of frustration and exhaustion, and wondered what and where the woman’s point of no return was. “Second, what in the world are you _wearing_ and what happened to the suit you were going to wear tonight? You are dressed like you’re planning on having a date night with your workshop, not meeting another Avenger _or_ —anything else.”

“If you two are going to squabble I’m leaving,” Clint interjected, already thinking of warm ratty sheets, his own alcohol supply, and Friday Night Football.

Stark made himself a barrier between the archer and the exit, wildly waving his dominant hand. “Nuh-uh, Legolas, sit. Stay. Awesome, we've gotta hash this out. Pep—Pepper, baby—Barton can see me in my work undies, it’s okay. It doesn't mean anything, except that we’re work bros. I swear I’m not cheating, not with him. He’s got too much facial hair going on right now.”

“Likewise.”

Stark ignored that. “And that stone cold persona doesn’t heat my loins either. You know perfectly well that your fire can’t be matched.”

“I’m not in the mood for flattery, Tony—I want answers. Why did you call Agent Barton here—”

_I’ve been wondering that myself, thanks._

“—and why in the world do you two look like you got into a fist fight?”

“I can take it from here,” Clint broke in again, taking back the reins from the squabbling pair. “Stark, some ground rules—don’t contact me unless we have a mission. Got it? I thought that was clear until you broke into my place last night and tried to kidnap me, or whatever the fuck that was.”

He didn’t realize what an incendiary statement that would be, with the explosion not coming from who he expected. Apparently Virginia Potts really _wasn’t_ in the know about her boyfriend’s most recent escapade.

“ _What?_ ”

The self-styled Iron Man had to speedily shift from wearing down Clint’s defenses to trying to herd off his girlfriend’s rising fury. “Pepper—”

“You _broke into Agent Barton’s house?_ ”

“You’re making it sound so terrible—”

“Is that why you look so beaten up? Because you broke in on a spy and got your ass handed to you?”

“Hey now, I got a few hits in, see for yourself—”

“Did JARVIS know about this? Did he know before you even decided to do something so ridiculous? Tony— _honestly_ —you could have been killed if Agent Barton hadn’t recognized you, and you’re not exactly the most skilled at hand-to-hand combat—”

‘ _He sure isn’t,’_ Barney crowed before Clint could silence him and continue watching the freakish family sitcom spectacle unfolding in front of him.

“ _Pep_ ,” Stark was saying, “I’ve got this, all right? I got out with minimal damage, and Barton even came by with apology flowers.”

“...I didn't bring any flowers.”

“Working on that then,” the inventor improvised. He shifted his attention visibly back to Clint, who sensed it this time and just sighed. “Aw come on, Barton. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know you’d go all Rambo on my ass if I stopped by. Well—yeah, maybe the thought crossed my mind, but I didn’t really _entertain_ it.”

“Try _entertaining_ more ideas that make sense, Stark, rather than jumping in ass first and attacking trained killers.” … _Or whatever_ this _is now_.

As if he’d read Clint’s mind, Stark rushed to clarify over Pepper’s very vocal fuming. “Look… shit aside? I want you to live here with me and Pepper and JARVIS—and with Bruce, and Rogers, and Romanoff if she ever comes back on the grid, and maybe Thor, if _he_ ever rainbows his way back down to Earth.”

Pepper stopped seething—and speaking.

JARVIS made a very human-sounding cough.

Clint just sat there, wishing for a moment as he blinked that he’d accepted Stark’s offer for a drink. Then he snorted a little bit, and shortly after _that_ he was laughing in tandem with the Barney in his head.

“Hey, what, whaaat? I think it’s a great idea, and so will Pepper once she cuts me to pieces for having it without her screening it first.”

“No.”

“Barton, _c’mon_! When’s the last time you saw any of us besides Romanoff? And I’ll bet even that’s just for the occasional boring debriefing. I’ve been planning out wings for everyone for _months_ now, and I’ve got yours almost ready to show. High ceilings, plenty of weapons cases, trap doors—”

“ _No, Stark_. You can’t buy me on this.”

“Why _not_?” the man asked petulantly.

“Because _fuck you_ , Stark, I don’t want to move into your playhouse!”

Pepper looked between the two men before recapturing the latter’s attention. “Back to the subject at hand—you know, _breaking and entering_ as a public hero—”

Poor Stark had to once again abandon his attempts at getting a house party together and actually placate his girlfriend this time. He kept giving the archer morose looks, ones with a shred of blame embedded in them, but they did virtually nothing.

 _‘Bad call, little bro… I don’t even think dogs shit this much in their own houses. Fuckin’ Iron Man’s offering you your own floor in a high-tech tower and you’re gonna turn it down?_ ’ There was more along those lines, which Clint forced himself to tune out.

Luxury wasn’t his jam—he liked small spaces, and the quiet, and perfect control. He knew where everything in his apartment was, and how it had gotten there. Any mess didn’t bother him, because he knew he’d eventually clean it when it pissed him off too much. Moving to Stark Tower—that would mean stroking Stark’s ego, his already-inflated sense of entitlement, being able to get whatever and whomever he wanted by bullshitting and batting his eyes. It would mean ceding his space to a new space, unknown, too clean, too unlived-in, and remotely watched and controlled by an AI he didn’t trust.

Being around the others was no advantage for him. Bar Natasha, he’d only been on a handful of missions with them, and far less than most of the others—having required therapy tended to keep a guy grounded. He was a bit behind on saving the world.

How _did_ a guy get back in the groove with teammates he’d only been with two or three times? Would a simple “thanks for saving my spot, bros” suffice? Maybe buying dinner as an apology? Or never acknowledging that he’d been on house arrest in the first place, that sounded great.

 _Or, hey_ —

His musings and Stark’s ongoing discussion with Potts were suddenly cut off by an ear-piercing siren, coupled with the phone in Clint’s pocket suddenly vibrating out of it, and JARVIS breaking his silence from the ceiling and said phone in a deep, forbidding tone:

“ _Avengers, assemble_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your trash author has returned. (Sorry for disappearing for over half a year.)
> 
> Jason Derulo's "Riding Solo" *was* my 2010 anthem, so Clint probs should not be that ashamed.
> 
> Thank everyone who's left comments and kudos (kudoses?) so far.~


	4. Accelerando

**legato**

The wind was drowning out the beats, the rhythm of the road. She loathed it for that, and wished for the freedom to banish the noise-canceller. It was much too hot and dry outside to have a vehicle’s windows down, but when mortal technology failed, there was often no choice but to return to antiquated means of keeping cool.

Not that she ever had much problem keeping cool.

That was an attribute she couldn’t afford to spill at the moment. Now she was laying low, living as her lessers did in order to avoid both detection and requests. A car was not _ever_ her preferred method of travel, but even she did what she had to.

Her driver handled the car as he would any other machine, smoothly but with a firm hand she could sense through the thrum of the whole thing. The wind whipped her hair across her face and made her incapable of seeing him properly, but that also bothered her none. If she couldn’t see him, that meant he couldn't see her either.

Soon the open road ended, and the car swerved gently to make a left turn. She said a silent goodbye to the browned fields and blustering winds as things became greener and more populated, then less so again. They were heading for the airport on her directions. _“Yours is small,”_ she had said half-condescendingly, _“but it will suffice for my needs.”_

He’d replied, _“Your needs seem to ever shift, madam—and yet your standards are never lowered.”_

_“Are you calling me high-maintenance?”_

_“Consider it a compliment. You are fortunate that my resources allow me to consistently satisfy you, and that I am ever willing to do so.”_

As much as she grumbled to herself when alone, the man _was_ an excellent source of income, and he had been essential in indirectly teaching her how to navigate this planet and all its details. When necessary, she would deal with his incessant need to banter. (Fortunately it would soon no longer be necessary.)

For now silence reigned between them. She kept her eyes on the approaching airstrip, and he kept his eyes on the road. The only time she needed to move was to lift an eyebrow and turn his way when he veered off the road suddenly and then back onto it; immediately after, he pressed a subtle button and the windows on both sides rolled up so he could speak and be heard.

“Apologies. There was a cat in the road.”

“Mmm.” Her inner estimation of him went up further still—she had always been fond of cats.

“We are almost at your destination. Are you certain you don’t want to fly first class?”

“You are kind—but I would truly rather not. It isn’t my way to attract attention, and certainly not that way.”

“Oh, it isn’t?” She heard incredulity in his voice, and it echoed doubly. “With your looks I’d have imagined the opposite.”

Careful not to blush, she tucked some of her hair behind her left ear. “You still speak as eloquently as ever, even with your backhanded compliments.”

“I am unused to persons who can recognize them.”

She frowned, feeling a tinge of unease. “I am not plural. You speak of others?”

“But of course. I never meant to imply anything else.”

She didn’t let herself relax, even with that assurance. She had tried hard to keep her identity a secret from her partner, and any indication that he knew she was not _always_ female rattled her to the core. She did not intend to be used. She had played and pulled strings to make sure her will was met and exceeded at all times—that she was made comfortable with every amenity he could provide. If she were exposed, all that delicate work might become dust in today’s rowdy wind. He might turn against her, and make sure she worked to meet _his_ will.

_I will not let that happen._

So she said nothing, only humming in a bored way and letting her hand go loose on the armrest. Now they were flying by the tiny airport, heading for the sole entrance and turning so swiftly that with any other driver she might be worried.

_Why am I doing this?_

One thing her partner was right about was her motivations, her desires. She hated discomfort. She despised when things did not go her way. Though she might _love_ change, and revel in creating it, she _really, really_ hated change that caused her unease. This move definitely would.

There was no reasonable reason why she was flying across the sea and into enemy territory. She could live out many decades in safety in this country, bothered only by one, so long as she plucked the right strings and tapped the right keys. Ending her disguise—displaying herself to the wider world—was akin to suicide.

The memory of a saucy voice came back to her, hidden under blond hair and a catty gaze. _Never sleep near a tamed viper_.

The taunt had been meant for her at the time. As was her wont, she twisted it to fit her needs, and with her situation now it fit quite well. She’d been sleeping near the viper for too many months now. It was time to leave before he woke from hibernation and chose to bite.

The car slowed and stopped, and the man shut the purring engine off before turning to her. “Your destination, my lady.”

Knowing she could avoid it no longer this day, she turned to face him head on, and gave him a nod and a tiny smile. “So it is. I should thank you, Doctor.”

“I have insisted all along that you must call me Victor—and even when you are absent, I will still insist.”

And she knew he would. For a mortal, he was persistent even in his politeness. Doggedness such as his could be fatal to his targets. “Is that meant to be a query?”

“It is.” In a flash, he was out of the car, around to her side to open the door and gracefully help her out. ( _Magic_ , her senses warned her unnecessarily.) “Will you visit Latveria again?”

“I’ve no doubt I will… if only for the excellent hospitality.”

“Pardon me for being skeptical.” His bright blue eyes became sharper under the silver mask, and he stretched to his full height, made more intimidating by the ever-present cloak. “What I mean is, will you be visiting again in _Doom’s_ lifetime?”

She tensed, one hand still trapped in his. Readied her magic, letting it pulse and flow through her veins and along her skin, while studying him. _He_ is _only a mortal._ Perhaps she could still get to the planes before he disabled them, or told the pilots not to admit her into the airport. Perhaps the man who had driven her was simply one of his many clones, some of which she had supervised him making, retaking, and tinkering with. If so, there was an _infinitesimal chance_ that she could esc—

“Steady yourself,” Victor whispered, still managing to sound tinny yet entirely in control of the situation. She didn’t know how she’d managed to fool herself into thinking otherwise. “If I was planning on causing you lasting harm, I would have rid myself of you on the ride here, or back in the bedroom I lent you in Latveria.

“You were subtle. Careful, even. But I am one of only few men who wield magic in this world, and I can measure the probability of having another being fall into my lap who can do the same. It is very, very small. Those of Earth know me too well to trespass into Latveria without my explicit permission, even if they should become able to shoot lasers from radiation exposure overnight. So I know you are not of this world, _my lady_. And I have a startlingly good guess as to which world you come from.”

“Then you should _bow_ ,” she hissed, trying to wrench her arm out of his grip. It did not work, which made her equally angry and alarmed. “Bow and feel fortunate that I dallied here as long as I did, and made use of your mind and your services.”

“That you even needed to stays my desire to kneel.” But he was smiling, and Victor generally did not smile for her or at her. “I repeat: I am not planning on killing you here. In fact, I am going to let you go.”

“ _Go_?” She faltered; her magic sputtered. She had expected a fight, most likely a psychological one. She had not expected to be allowed to use one of his planes after all. “But _why_?”

He unfolded his hand, letting her clutch it to herself, but remained in her path. “…You fascinate me. You managed to fool Doom for longer than any other being, yet you did not seek to tear down Latveria. It is clear that you still have dark plans for this world. I was curious as to why you were waiting and planning this time rather than slaughtering and taking, until I realized that the latter is not your way.”

It was essential that she get him away from the topic of what was _her_ way and what was not. “So, you are waiting to see _my way_ of burning the world?”

“Yes.”

“That is absurd.”

“Hardly. My primary interest is in protecting what’s mine… and in destroying enemies I have also claimed as mine.” Victor fixed her with a stare she could not avoid; it was as demanding and unyielding as he on his best day. “I told you the names of my enemies. You have lived in Latveria for months. So long as you disturb neither, you may always count me as an ally in your varied endeavors.”

Dryly she spat, “I thought Doom worked alone.”

“When it suits him. But have you not considered that he might be waiting for the right partner?”

That set her to boiling, though there was no threat (or naught but friendliness) in the words. “I am not your _queen_!”

Victor von Doom just smiled again, and gave her a mini bow and steely words. “Oh, I know.”

She pushed her way around him, silver dress and all, steaming with rage she could not properly direct, and smoothed out her hair before flicking her finger and summoning her bag to her shoulder. The next words were spat just as firmly as the last, with only a thin veneer of politeness that any might see through. “Thank you for your hospitality, _Victor_.”

“Visit Latveria again sometime,” he called after her retreating form. “I should be pleased to see you as yourself, and to dispense with pleasure and talk business instead.”

Silently Loki Laufeyson vowed to take his speck of meaningless land with the rest when she someday tired of Midgard and burnt it all under her foot. A magic-wielding mortal genius was still a mortal, and thus easily bested. Even a disgraced god was still a god.

When she whisked through Doomsport security, received her ticket, put away her bag and looked out the window of her plane some time later, he and the car were long gone. She huffed to herself and closed the window shade, and didn’t think to miss him.

\-------------------

The main problem: Loki was restless.

She had spent too long waiting, huddled in tiny countries praying to be unseen by those who would see. Since the Tesseract’s soothing voice had departed from his mind, she had lost something, and she wasn’t sure _what_ it was she had lost or how to get it back.

At least at first. Later she glimpsed Victor pacing in one of his laboratories and tapping on jars with his metal fingers, making sounds, and she immediately recalled what she had always known before: music, and rhythms.

Magic had never been quiet. Learning magic as a child had quickly become synonymous with learning about music, and rhythms, and the patterns that every living thing possessed—not simply those with magical ability. Soon Loki had memorized the gentle notes her mother subconsciously exuded, the persistent booming drums that accompanied Thor wherever he lumbered, and the rumbling bass that underlay Odin’s every cool word.

Everyone had a tone or a rhythm or both. Loki used them over hundreds of years to keep from ever being snuck up on, and in all of her many pranks and adventures with Thor and the Warriors Three. Until Thor’s would-be coronation this music was loud and clear alongside her magic as always—but it started to dim when she fell off the Bifröst, and went completely silent while she was in care of Thanos and the Chitauri.

Eerie quiet did not suit her, not when she lived to make and hear noise. The Tesseract saw that, and reached into her being to provide her again with the tones and pounding she craved. For that Loki would be forever grateful, even though the stone’s tinkering would probably never entirely be reversed within her.

She blew up the enemy’s base, escaping with their best brains and brawn from a man whose unerring drumbeats reminded her of Odin’s bass. She set up camp in a deep, quiet cave that made sounds echo and made keeping secrets from her impossible, and bickered back and forth with the Chitauri (who made no pleasing sounds _at all_ , unless scratchy screeches could be considered musical or rhythmic). And then she settled down, to let the ants plan, and to hear what better music _they_ might provide her.

(And oh, _did they_. Well, not all of them. Just enough of them.)

Most of the ants’ music drowned each other’s out, or combined to form dull harmonies. Selvig’s own beat was a roundelay which the Tesseract enhanced to, ah, _inspire_ him to work his hardest. No telling what that had done to his already-fragile psyche.

But _then_ … then there was Agent Barton.

He had been largely unremarkable when they’d first met—Loki had been ‘encouraging’ Selvig with little nudges toward the Tesseract since she’d first found the old scientist’s consciousness, while floating out in the endless black beneath the bridge. As such, she didn’t have much time to focus on any of the others Selvig came into contact with. The Odin-doppelgänger’s drumbeats were muted for her at the time, as were the odd salsa-tunes which came with his tense second-in-command. So when she vaguely glimpsed a tall, brooding stranger with something on his back passing Selvig in the corridors, or drawing his ire from the rafters, she paid no mind to the odd tones and drums that emanated strongly from him. Indeed, it was as though she were deaf to them.

But that had changed quickly. Several rounds of torture, coercion and self-encouraging talk later, Loki had exploited her magic and that of the scepter to find the other end of the Tesseract’s connection. And she’d heard Agent Barton before she saw him. _“Doors open from both sides.”_ _Indeed they do_ , the god had thought, and had smiled as she crossed over to the other side to bring war.

Things were a blur after that.

_“Sir—please, put down the spear!”_

ZAP!

CRASH!

She had decimated them. Well. _Nearly all_ of them. Those she hadn’t destroyed had kept coming at her, and coming, and coming. It was Agent Barton who had given her too many firsts—first to shoot at her, first to display enough sense to dodge and weave around the bolts of magic she fired with the scepter, and the flying knives too. First to attract her attention by standing up _again_ , and after already being thrown around by her superior strength.

She’d stalked toward him—his resourcefulness had decided her. She was going to take him, and test out the gift the Other had given her. In order to bring the Chitauri army, she would need a small army of her own to keep her safe and execute her plans. _And the best army has the hardiest warriors._

His music had then overwhelmed her. _Ambient_. Slow, repetitive, _overpowering_. The closer she stepped, the more she was unable to ignore the music and the irrational rhythm that was paired with it. Everything got calmer around him. The Tesseract was—her smooth voice was fading in his mind, replaced by this persistent thing that would not _stop_. Loki wanted to possess it. She _needed_ to possess it. She _had to have him_ —

And the scepter touched his chest. Barton’s steel-gray eyes were swallowed in Tesseract blue—and Loki screamed inside when the music that accompanied him was swallowed, too.

It had been the worst sort of trade. Those she took afterward (Selvig, the other soldiers, the irrelevant mercenaries-for-hire) suffered the same fate—their music was muted to the point of not being present for even her sensitive ears. The Tesseract allowed him to hear his enemies, to learn them and thus know when they were close by, but his allies were silenced in the name of ‘peace’. _Peace is what you need, godling. You must not be distracted by those you call yours._

Blue threads of light connected Loki to her ‘charges’, and to the scepter she had used to take them. It was those threads Barton tracked when he had come to Loki’s rescue with the army of former S.H.I.E.L.D agents. They brought Loki no joy—and even less than none when she felt the cord connecting her to Agent Barton snap like a stepped-on twig.

His sounds and rhythm returned, too faint for her to hear as she made her escape.

And she had been left with no time to mourn the loss of her finest agent, or to lament the bare minimum of time they’d spent together ( _which she_ refused _to dwell on right now, or ever, ever, **ever**_ ). There had been an army to lead, a portal to open, and a once-brother to fight to the death. Ah, and “Avengers” to kill. A fine name for the pests, if an arrogant and overreaching one.

Losing had… well.

It had _hurt_. But Loki was used to losing—it was just another pain to add to the mass.

Time had passed in another blur after being smashed into Tony Stark’s floor, and she did not wish to dwell on all that had happened after that. What mattered was her eventual escape, and return to Midgard.

She had been restless even then—and perhaps that was what had thrown off her calculations. She had meant to land in the city she’d nearly conquered ( _and then been conquered in_ ). Instead, she had found herself in the middle of the road in a country she didn’t recognize, wild-haired and wild-eyed as she dodged cars in the dead of night. And how _could_ she have recognized it? Barring her brief sojourn with the Chitauri, when last Loki had been on Midgard this place had no drawn borders, and did not exist as any country anyone would have known.

So she’d wandered, making her way toward lights and sound. As a precaution she’d waved a hand over her tattered robes and shoes, and took on the appearance she currently held ten thousand miles in the air—females were more likely to be harassed, in certain cases, but also more likely to be offered assistance. There was an eating location up ahead, but on her way toward it she was waylaid by a polished, fancy black car had barred her path, and Victor von Doom had rolled down the window.

_“What is a fair damsel like you doing out here?”_

_“Oh, just enjoying the sharp rocks and loud vehicles,”_ she had replied coldly. _“I am traveling, what else would I be doing?”_

 _“No one should have to travel that way in my country. Get in.”_ He’d snapped his fingers and opened the side door, which was her first alert that this mortal was more than what he seemed. With no other options, Loki had indeed gotten in and settled into the leather seats with some surprise and a minimal amount of pleasure.

Victor was an enigma wrapped in a bomb. His rhythm was slow and seductive, staccato drumbeats with no accompanying sound that Loki could hear. He moved sinuously and spoke clearly and confidently, but with an air of falsehood behind the words. There were _always_ layers and double meanings and hidden agendas. Victor was a _liar_ , and Loki secretly relished in it. It was always good to find one of hers scattered among the realms—Midgard could not be as lost as she once thought it was if there were tricksters making merry and watching the world burn.

She was taken on tours around Latveria. In the course of a few months she had seen all of Doomstadt, the capital city, and a good portion of Castle Doom after Victor insisted that she take a room in one of the towers. He took her to the rail station, the parks, the temple and countless other Doom-themed locations she had to hold her tongue about (he could be oddly sensitive). Loki was seldom allowed to travel alone, although she insisted that she had nothing to fear from his citizens—and since visitors only came with his permission, strangers were a thing of the past too. That irked her—she _liked_ variety—but she said little about it to him, unless she knew she was traveling with one of his clones. Once Victor found out that she could _distinguish_ him from his clones, she was allowed to watch him work on them.

Dull he was not. They conversed for long hours on dictatorships, health care for the masses, education, immigration control, censorship and magic manipulation. The few times he left Latveria on business, he often spent the night before conversing with Loki about the best way to utterly terrorize, humiliate and defeat one’s mortal enemies—and she was happy to oblige him with old stories from Asgard. He was constantly asking questions of Loki once he caught her using magic one morning to sweep her hair into a tall bun. How did her magic work? Was she born with it? Where did she hail from? The last was oft repeated, along with other leading questions Loki chose not to follow. She did not wish for him to know her identity or the extent of her abilities, and so he learned nothing.

Or so she had thought.

 _How could I have been so foolish?_ she inwardly railed from the plane now, staring in frustration out over the clouds. _Obviously he was suspicious all along of my coming, since none enter Latveria without his permission much less knowledge. And the less I confided, the more I unwittingly confirmed that I was no lost mortal!_

In this situation her lack of knowledge had worked against her. It had been nearly a thousand years since the gods had taken any personal interest in the ants of Midgard, and back then she had been but a swaddling babe. The world had clearly progressed without them, and people with it. Extraordinary personalities like Victor von Doom, Bruce Banner and Tony Stark may have earned their own widespread reputations in their lifetimes, but Loki had not been around to learn about them—to her own continuous ruin.

Doom had probably seen her descent into Midgard from the skies, and left his castle and city to investigate. From there it would be simple to slowly pry at her and find information about her past and present—one way or another.

Yet, even with this information, with countless robots, force fields, advanced technology at his disposal and an extremely disciplined airport with limited flights in and out, he had chosen to let her go.

_It cannot be because of the nonsense he spouted about watching me work. His true motive must be something deeper._

Loki let out one long exhale.

It would be fine. (If necessary, she would _make_ it so.) What mattered was that Victor _had_ let her go, whatever the reason might be. She had regained enough strength and magic to be on her own anywhere in the realms, and she was heading now toward where she most wanted to be. In New York there would be _change_ , and _newness_ , and other things which fed her fire. Victor would have to come to foreign territory to find her now—and so long as she stayed away from Reed Richards and his ilk, _everything would be fine_.

The flight attendant came over the loudspeaker, announcing their imminent landing at LaGuardia Airport, and a shiver of anticipation flew along Loki’s skin.

 _You fool,_ she admonished herself. _Lamb in a den of lions. Nothing of what’s to come will be ‘fine’_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never stay with strangers, kids.
> 
> Happy (belated?) new year!


	5. Impromptu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki sets himself up in slight style. He's still a prince at heart, after all.

Luck was on Loki’s side—right before explosions shut down travel into and out of the airport, she managed to resume her preferred form (minus the helmet), don a nice suit from a frazzled-looking businessman, call a taxi and make it to Manhattan, ‘paying’ him with a folded up napkin that became a folded-up wad of bills as an afterthought. How he _loved_ magic.

First, the essentials: finding a place to stay and ‘blending in’ to wider society. The less noticeable he was, the less likely he was to be snatched off the street by—

“The Avengers, everyone! They’re fighting the Green Goblin in Central Park, _hurry_!”

Well. Loki hardly believed in blessings, but not taking advantage of the fools who were now flocking toward and away from the mayhem would be more criminal than trying to open a portal over them. He swept down the sidewalk, glancing at the panicked mortals who grabbed their bags, hoisted their babes and cried frantically into the small devices in their ears that he knew were called ‘cell phones’. _I should get one of those._ He quickened his pace, making sure that his outward appearance was as concerned as the people surrounding him.

An explosion echoed from the direction of the park, along with several distant screams.

Something tore at Loki then. Perhaps a flashback—a nightmare—a not-so-distant recollection that had him suddenly clutching at his middle, gasping, with round wide pupils and the sense memory of utter agony.

_“A true god would not bleed—nor would he squirm and cry as you have, weakling.”_

_“Submit, or we’ll hurl you back into the Void!”_

_Explosions, so many of them, but they all seemed to happen inside of him without end. Over and over, until his memory went blank—and then went blue._

“Sir—excuse me, sir? Are you all right?”

He was hurled back into reality by two little tugs. A middle-aged woman with honey-colored hair had her right hand hesitantly placed on the shoulder of his suit. Her left arm cradled a toddler who dozed ignorantly on.

 _Breathe_.

Loki took another breath, and another, pulling himself back together. He knew he had gone pale and that only years of practice and masking his true feelings kept him from shaking in her grip. Now he contended with the newest voice in his head, the wildling that demanded he kill anyone who saw him in a moment where he had anything less than pure composure. _Raise your hand! Rend her flesh from her bones! Turn her brat to dust! DO IT!_

But he would not. The woman’s bright hair and concerned frown reminded him of Frigga, and her baby boy had innocent brown eyes that he would not sully. It would also be no good trying to lay low if the Avengers finished their work with the goblin only to come after him next.

“I am well, thank you,” he finally managed to say—he saw her eyebrows lift at his accent, which she undoubtedly had only heard once before if ever, and vowed to remember to adopt hers for future interactions with the public. “The explosions merely—I experienced some uncomfortable memories upon hearing them.”

“PTSD?” Her eyes softened even more, and she went on before he could ask what the Hel that _was_ and why it made him feel exposed. “I understand. Well—I don’t have it personally, but my brother did two tours in Afghanistan and our dad was in ‘Nam, way back when. Sometimes you see the same look in their eyes that you just got—that lost, painful one.”

When he only stared at her, still slowing his breathing, she blushed a little and hugged her son closer. “Sorry—I _can_ ramble on when someone lets me. I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t fall in the street, you looked so unbalanced.”

 _Breathe_.

“I will recover just fine. But if you’ll pardon me—I am a newcomer to this city and was wondering where I can purchase a phone like yours?”

“Oh yes! Just down there. There’s a few good phone stores down this walk. But it looks like some of them are closing up early because of the commotion, so maybe it’s better if you try again tomorrow.”

 _An excellent idea_ , he grudgingly admitted to himself, and nodded to her, hugged her briefly and smiled at her child before hurrying on his way.

\-------------------

 _Breathe_.

In the end he went closer to Central Park than the mortals dared. The more of them that ran toward their homes and cars and away from the conflict, the emptier the streets became and the easier it was for Loki to learn how to navigate the city. It had seemed quite simple when he had a bird’s eye view from atop Stark Tower, but… well. Few things were easy.

Besides finding shelter, possessing necessities was Loki’s next need. He would have stolen a cell phone if the opportunity had presented itself, but too many of the stores’ employees had been cowering behind their desks for him to make a clean getaway with a phone, along with all the information he would have needed to make the thing work.

Fortunately, he had _pocketed_ a few valuables on his way out of Asgard, which would serve him well in one way or another until he was settled in the most lavish living arrangements he could acquire. Loki kept them close as he glided into a place that supposedly rented out houseroom by the week.

“Good afternoon—” this was said as the young man glanced anxiously out the window behind the god, although only a thin band of smoke could be seen from this distance. “Uh, how can I help you?”

“In the usual way—I’d like to pay for a week-long stay in one of your residences.”

Loki’s dark eyebrows almost took up permanent residence in his hair when the boy told him the price—but he had no choice but to hand over some of the real bills he’d ‘borrowed’ from a panicking pedestrian, a couple of teenagers and the woman who’d comforted him. Having _these_ turn to napkins in the register would only get him into unalterable trouble.

And it was worth it when he opened the door and saw the spaciousness of the place he’d rented. A wide room for guests, a compact room for cooking, and an intimate space for sleeping… it already pleased him and he’d not even decorated it yet.

 _That can wait_.

And it waited until the screams had died down, and the streets became so noisy again that he could hear it at his new windows. Only then did he use magic to fashion himself a bed with comfortable sheets and blankets, and find his way to the nearest market to buy as many essentials as he could carry. For his first trip he took them home like a mortal—for his second, when he ‘purchased’ a television and radio to stay more informed, he teleported himself and the items home when he noticed suspicions eyes on him. If he knew anything, it was how to spot a potential thief.

“There,” he murmured softly, setting the television and radio up with a few hand waves before turning the former on. “Now, let’s meet the enemy of my enemies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone! Terribly sorry for the delay--this was meant to be posted in May before school let out for me. Fortunately, home Internet saved the day.
> 
> In the meantime, thank you to everyone who has commented or left kudos or other intangible marks of approval. If I haven't responded to your comment, let me know--my inbox is currently under assault.
> 
> (The next chapter will return power over tale-telling to Clint.~)


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